


/angels

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Depression, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Recovery, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-01 05:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21406075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: After Chapter 2. Bev and Ben are gone. Bill and Richie stayed behind.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Richie Tozier, Implied Reddie, Implied Stenbrough - Relationship, more Bichie heavy with bonus Mike
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. /the long way home

**Author's Note:**

> so this is Bill/Mike/Richie, but it's more Bill/Richie heavy because i SUUUCK at writing Mike.

"You can stay here if you want."

Bill had been fully prepared to take the rest of his divorce while living in the Derry Townhouse. He was more than ready to file papers and picking clothes from a suitcase every day, piling his small number of belongings into the hotel room like he planned on living there. He'd have been at peace with that.

_You can stay here if you want._

Richie's first plan, when he returned to his room, was to end it. He'd strap a leather belt over a hanger and click the buckle into a loop, just wide enough for his head. Then he'd dangle like a Christmas ornament. Housekeeping would find his body. He wasn't sure if he'd be missed, with Eddie and Stan gone.

_Stay with me._

The proposal came out of nowhere as they were seeing Bev and Ben off. The two new lovers were planning on going on a trip together, to wherever their hearts told them. They were going to pick up Bev's friend Kay McCall. Their car drove off and Bill said, _well, time to head back to the townhouse, I guess._ That's when the proposal came, from Mike. _You can stay here if you want. _He pointed towards the Derry Library. Both Bill and Richie cocked a brow.

"Oh, I can't." Richie threw up his hands. "Gotta get back to work."

"Don't tell me you're gonna go back onstage immediately after this." Mike looked at him, expectantly. If Richie were to be honest, he'd say, _no, you're right. I'll be fucking dead. I'm not going anywhere until they find me hanging up in the closet._

"The public wants what it wants."

"No." Mike shook his head. "You deserve a break. You too, Bill." He threw his big, strong arms over each of their shoulders. "I've got a couple rooms set up, I can sleep on the couch."

"No," Bill discouraged, "Mike, you can't--"

"I insist." He patted them both on their backs, then stepping aside. "Come on, let's go get your stuff."

So they all drove to the Derry Townhouse, collected Richie and Bill's things, and then the two of them checked out. Mike's house was musty and homey, Bill had seen it before. He very roughly associated it with the god-awful drug trip he'd never get over. Richie hadn't lived somewhere this diminutive since his childhood, and it felt oddly relaxing. _This, _he thought, _will be a fine place to die._ And nobody else was any the wiser.

Richie shoved his things into the small guest room, a single bed with a lamp and chest of drawers. The closet wouldn't work for his purposes, as it was made with shelves for linens. He frowned, closing the closet door. The only other option would be to loop it around the shower head, unless he could find some other dangling wall-protuberance where nobody would bother him.

For now, a nap.

* * *

It was dark when he awoke. Not hungry. The house had become dead. It was only 10 PM, but it'd been a rough day for everyone. Richie was amazed Mike made it through his shift. He didn't have to, but he did, and he dragged out the corpse of Henry Bowers, too. He was Richie's hero. A good man.

The dark had reached the land, and it was like a big blanket. The stars, white holes in its surface. Richie had heard a story like that a long time ago. The woman telling it claimed it was a native American tale, but he had no idea if that was true. As all the animals were suggesting things to put in the sky, the hummingbird kept flying around wildly, until its beak poked millions of holes that became the stars. So whenever him and Eddie would go look at the night sky, he'd say, _check out those puncture wounds, Eds_.

His chest throbbed.

Eddie.

Richie grabbed his belt. He hung it over a bedpost, coiled like a snake. His father belted him, only once. The man was never one for corporal punishment, but after nearly lighting the shed on fire, it seemed like a good time to try. It hurt, but not as much as if he'd actually gotten the full fifteen he was promised. Sickened with himself, his father stopped at five. It was enough to teach Richie not to light firecrackers indoors.

He could see the door in the bathroom was closed, but the light around it was still on. _Waste of electricity_, he thought. He looped the belt idly, tucking the tongue into the buckle. He was hoping that it wouldn't come undone, somehow. A belt really wasn't a good thing to use for this, but it was all he had. No gun, no knife, no nothing.

As he approached the backlit door, it felt like the tunnel of heaven approaching. The sound of dripping water was audible -- leaky faucet, most likely. He wondered which funerary myths were true. Would he go to someplace like heaven, or hell? Would his heart be weighed against the feather of Ma'at? Would his stilled heart turn into a butterfly? Would he be reincarnated into something like a bull, or an insect, or a man? Would he see the turtles of time, or the hummingbird who created the stars?

His eyes adjusted to the light as he opened the door.

"Richie!"

Glasses immediately fogged up, Richie couldn't tell who was addressing him. He wiped them quickly on the corner of his shirt, and when he put them back on, he saw something new, and different, and terrifying.

Bill was there, in a full tub. Largely nude, with a look on his face like he was fifteen and his mom just caught him watching porn on the family computer. (Not even normal porn, like, the crazy shit.) His fingers were gripping the edges of the tub. Blood, sanguine as wine, dripped down the white, pristine sides. His arms, filleted open. If they had fins and scales, it might've made Richie hungry for sashimi, but as it stood, he just felt ill. The belt dropped from his hand.

"Bill, what the- what did you-" He couldn't even complete his thought. Instead he buried his head in the toilet bowl and threw up. Bill's lip curled.

"W-w-what's the b-b-b-belt for."

"That doesn't matter, holy shit!" Turning Bill's arm over, Richie could see the jagged criss-cross of wounds. It made him think of Stan, the way he must've looked. Bled like a stuck pig in his bath, eyes and mouth open, a face frozen in time. "Why the fuck?"

"The belt." 

"Shut the fuck up, man, my belt? Who fucking cares? You're- you- you're fucking bleeding!" Richie was teary-eyed. Bill looked blank. Empty. "You- you have something to go back to."

"And you don't?" Bill quirked a brow. How he managed to be so calm at times like these was a mystery. Richie imagined the massive storm going on behind those eyes, one so powerful it could sweep up the entirety of Manhattan, leaving it looking like the victim of a carpet bombing. "You were g-going to k-k-kill yourself, weren't you?" Richie could see the way Bill tried to spit away his stutter. His mouth trembled.

"Then what were you doing, smart guy?"

Bill's lip curled back. "Oh Christ, don't start crying," Richie blurted, "I can't handle that." He felt a lump in his throat. "God fucking dammit, Bill, you..." He clutched Bill's hand. It was cold, and wet with bathwater and blood. He was hurt. He was mad. _Bill._

The bathroom door opened again, and now Richie had that teenager-caught-watching-porn look. Mike was there in a soft, red bathrobe. His eyes wide with what Richie wished was anger, or even disappointment. It was hurt. It was pain. _Look at what you've done_, Richie thought, and he didn't know it, but Bill thought the same thing. Mike knelt down, batting Richie's hand away and examining the ravaged surface of Bill's arm.

"Richie, fucking," Bill stammered, "c-c-c-came in here, with a looped b-b-b-b-belt." Mike then looked at Richie, who felt ill again. 

"You two..." Mike started, then covered his mouth. _Oh, look what you've done._

Bill toweled off, and Mike watched, terrified to even leave the room. Richie had to stand there. Mike gripped his arm, tight like a vice. Then a long, awkward sequence of Mike bandaging Bill's shredded wrists. Richie stared at him. Bill's eyes were dull and blank. Once they were covered, Richie was painfully reminded of Eddie's arm cast. The one that Greta Keene harshly scrawled 'LOSER' over. He'd written on top of it. 'LOVER'.

Richie's heartbeat felt more like a throbbing pain, like an infection.

"I guess I oughta go back to bed." He stood. Mike looked at him, eyes wild with a primal fear. One much, much different from the fear Pennywise derived.

"I think you two should sleep together." Richie and Bill looked at each other, digesting what Mike said. "If that's okay." They both nodded. They couldn't think of anything else to do but agree. So Mike hauled Bill's suitcase to the guest room and looked on with concern, surrounded by the lamplight that shot through the door frame. Bill and Richie laid beside one another, stiff as wooden boards, because this was a little gay, and neither of them could sleep.

* * *

They didn't sleep. They also didn't talk.

Richie found himself suddenly enamored with the white paint on the ceiling. His eyes wanted to close. Desperately. But he couldn't, knowing Bill was next to him, fully conscious and no doubt feeling just about the same. They watched the sun come up through the pale drapes in the window. A pale, pure white ball of light, slowly peeking past the horizon line. Silence, golden like a halo.

Georgie had a funeral, long before Bill was willing to admit he was dead. He remembered asking his uncle, 

_"W-w-when people d-die, what ha-ha-happens?"_

His uncle said something that never really left him.

_"Wherever they go, it'll be a long way home."_

Mike made pancakes for breakfast. Richie and Bill were both simultaneously struck with their own uselessness, their inability to make their own food. The fact that they'd been living on take-out and restaurant shit since they entered college. Looking back on his own childhood, Bill couldn't remember his parents cooking much at all after Georgie died. He remembered hunger like it was as close a friend as the Losers had been. He remembered waiting for death every night, because he was a child, and didn't know better.

Richie used way too much maple syrup. Enough that it flooded off the plate and hit the table, where he casually placed a napkin. Mike looked somber. Morose. Very, very serious, with his hands folded together like an accordion. _In prayer_, Richie thought, without really intending to.

"So I think we need to talk about last night." Mike finally said it.

"I mean, what's there to talk about, right?" Richie tried to pass it off with a jovial snort, but Mike was having none of it.

"I'm gonna have work. But I need you two to always be within each other's sight line. I mean- like you don't have to be in the bathroom together if someone's using the toilet, just like, stand outside the door."

"What about sh-showers?" Bill mumbled. Mike let off a long sigh.

"Close the shower curtain. Look, I'm not trying to be intrusive, but..." Mike bit his lip. Richie could tell he was about to cry, and he felt awful for it. "I can't lose you guys. There's already a big fucking... _scoop_ taken out of me where Eddie and Stan were." Suddenly, it dawned on Richie good and proper that he wasn't the only person destroyed by the loss of his two friends. He'd been selfish. And it cycled back, making him wish he was dead again. "And I know you feel the same. I just- I need you guys to be okay, and this is the only way I know how, aside from admitting you to a psych ward or some shit. I don't wanna do that."

Bill had been to the ward before. This wasn't his first suicide attempt. It wasn't even his most successful.

"Alright." He nodded sagely. Richie nodded too. Breakfast was silent.


	2. /red water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill wondered what it would've been like, to see Georgie's blood flow to the gutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is actually gonna be way longer than 3 chapters sorry obama

_Richie should have known something was off with Bill that day._

_The way his expression looked. His hands scrunched inside his pockets, gaze just a few inches left of Richie's face. His knuckles, probably bloodless. But he didn't, he asked if Bill was coming to the quarry today. We're gonna throw rocks, Bill, it'll be fun. Bill shook his head._

_"Georgie's disappeared."_

_It was the first time Richie had ever seen Bill cry._

* * *

There was nothing good on TV, even though Mike did have cable. When he looked on Netflix, Richie was gawked at stupidly by his own comedy specials. They all had useless titles, like _Trash On_ _TV_, ones that seemed oh-so-clever when they were pitched to him. That suicide stunt from the night before was, without a doubt, the funniest thing Richie Tozier had done in years. He wondered if Bev had seen him die, gape-mouthed in a permanent gasp of pain. He wondered, if he had went home, how would he have died?

Bill was on the other end of the couch, with what felt like miles between them. Richie netted his fingers together, desperate to say something, but unable to come up with the words. He was plagued by unease. His mouth fell open, and he spoke without thought.

"Why'd you do it?"

Bill looked up from his lap, looking listless and somber. "You know, like... that."

"I'm sad."

"Well, yeah, I figured." Richie rolled his eyes. "But like, _why_."

"I d-don't know, why'd you?" The agitation was clear in Bill's voice. Richie bit his lower lip. _Maybe if I tell him, he'll feel more comfortable? _He sighed, sinking a bit into the couch cushions. Bill scowled in a way that made Richie feel like the scum of the earth. "Exactly."

"I mean, I feel like it's something we should be able to talk about! We're adults."

"D-d-don't wanna."

"Alright." Richie crossed his legs. "Fuck me I guess."

The words _fuck off_ danced on Bill's tongue. He was angry, and wounded, inside and out. "I'm sorry." Richie mumbled, and Bill immediately softened. _Look at you, projecting your feelings on others again. Look what you've done, Buh-Buh-Billy._

His thoughts sounded like It. His chest, tight and full of cold air.

"M-m-me too."

"There's nothing good on." Richie grumbled, passing the remote over to Bill. "You got any ideas?" Bill flipped through the offerings of on-demand movies, occasionally looking at Richie to see if he had any reactions. He settled on _Taxi Driver_, a movie he found easy enough to ignore. "This movie blows."

"It's a c-c-c-classic."

"Yeah?" Richie rose his eyebrows.

"I f-figured you wouldn't be p-p-paying attention, anyway."

"I mean," Richie looked away, "it's a good movie to nap to."

"No, fine, I'll f-find s-s-something else."

Bill settled on _Bride of_ _Re-Animator_, which he never got around to seeing, mostly because he forgot he'd seen the first one until recently. There was a silence for awhile, only the sound of the film playing. Bill was fine with that. God knows, he'd rather be lulled by the ever-serious voice of Jeffrey Combs than talk to Richie about his issues. Unfortunately, they only got to the first hospital scene when Richie paused it.

"If you're blaming yourself for-" Richie's throat moved, "for Eddie, you shouldn't be. It was, uh, it was my--"

"Shut up, J-J-Jesus Christ." Bill pressed his palms to his forehead. "It's not. Don't even ffffucking finish that sentence."

"Then whose was it?"

_Mine_, Bill wanted to say. _All my fault._

"The c-c-clown, I guess."

"I could've stopped it. I was _right there_. I," Richie gestured wildly, "I saw it." His voice sounded caught deep in his larynx, like a gob of phlegm. "When he got me into the deadlights, I saw- just seconds before, and-"

"Look, I could've-"

"For fuck's sake, Bill!" Richie rose his voice,_ just enough_. "You can't fucking take the blame for everything, okay? You can't be the hero all the fucking time. Maybe quit constantly acting guilty about shit you didn't do." His face lacked any sort of happiness in it, not even a hint of humor. No sarcasm. No Richie Tozier to be found. "If you want the attention that bad, then fuck off to a book signing." Bill scoffed, a smile crossing his face, but definitely not a happy one. A laughter of disgusted disbelief, and not amusement.

"Fuck you." It's the most honest 'fuck you' he'd ever spoken. "The attention? P-p-pull your fucking head out of your ass, R-Richie."

"I mean." Richie started, throwing his hands out, "at this point blaming yourself for all this shit, it's- it's dumb. And you know it is, so the only reason you could still be doing this is because--"

"Because it's _true!"_

"Fuck off with that shit! Two of my best friends are dead, I could've saved Eddie and you're still making everything about yourself! All the time with you..."

"Th-th-they were my b-best friends, too."

"Yeah, and you almost got them killed when we were thirteen." His gestures were erratic. "And for what? We all knew Georgie was de--"

* * *

_Bill had never felt this power before. This control._

_Richie wasn't on the ground like he had hoped for. The punch only sent him a little ways backwards, him being held back by his arms and screaming at Bill. _You're a loser! You fucking loser! You fucking f-f-faggot! _And it made Bill smile on the inside, the way Richie stuttered, just like him. He wanted to go in for another. He wanted to paint the asphalt with Richie's blood and grey matter, drag his shoes through it._

_Later on, in bed, he felt sick with himself. How could he think such a thing about his friend? Well, they probably weren't friends anymore. Why would Richie ever want a rotten friend like him? He shouldn't have asked for help. He should've gone to Neibolt alone. Maybe he would have died._

_That was the first time he thought it._

_Maybe dying would be alright._

* * *

The way Richie's cheek felt under his knuckle brought back nauseating, disgusting memories of years past. Small ones, buried by something even stronger than Pennywise: the human subconscious. His hand reeled back. Richie must've seen it too. He had that look in his eyes.

_He's dead, Bill_. He could hear his father's voice. _Georgie's dead._

"I'm s--"

"No, I am--"

"Richie I s-swear to God--" 

"At least let me go first."

Bill went silent. "I'm sorry."

"I'm s-s-sorry."

There was a moment of silent clarity. He wondered how Richie felt, when he got punched.

In truth, Richie felt an all-consuming terror. He felt like he was seeing God, and that God had just told him to kill himself. He was screaming, he said the worst word he could think of, the one that would hurt the most. The throbbing in his face was back, a pain twenty-seven years old, but fresh as a spring bud. Tears were collecting inside of him, brewing, threatening to burst forward. He felt small, and he could see that Bill did, too.

_I made him small._

The taste of bile tinged the back of Richie's throat, but never came any further forward. 

"B-being a child was great." Bill stammered, suddenly. His face was red, and hot. "My parents l-l-let me d-do whatever I w-wanted." Strain weighed on his voice, as he was also on the verge of tears himself. "No bedtimes, n-n-nobody t-telling me to do work, no ch-chores."

"Nobody makin' dinner." Richie mumbled. "You told me all the time."

"And Audra, she's, she's the same fucking thing." Richie guided Bill's head to his chest, cradling his skull like that of an infant. "We let each other d-d-do whatever and n-n-n-nobody cares. She c-comes home with m-m-men I've never seen before, she s-s-sleeps with them, in our b-b-bed."

"Sounds like a bitch."

"I let it happen. It's because- b-because I couldn't make her happy, and I d-d-deserved it." Bill's fingers knotted themselves in Richie's shirt. "We were g-getting a d-d-divorce, finally. But I, I wanted to m-m-make it easier, because, _because,"_

"Take it easy, Big Bill." Richie smoothed Bill's hair with his fingers. Bill had always been the pole of stability that the Losers leaned against. Richie only ever saw him cry twice as a child -- once when Georgie was declared missing, and once after they defeated Pennywise the first time. Now he was old enough to wonder how badly that fucked up Bill's psyche, and it ate at him as soon as he considered it.

"And I lost, Eddie, his arm b-b-broke and now he's d-dead and I know I c-c-could've f-f-f-fixed it, when did I b-become so _useless_, Rich?" Bill peered up at Richie with glimmering, bloodshot eyes. "I'm just s-sad all the t-t-t-time and c-coming back here, it's th-the only time I f-felt happy and I ruined it!"

Twenty-seven years of pent-up suffering poured out of Bill in a voice-cracking sob, one that shook his whole body. _No bedtimes, nobody telling me to do work, nobody to hold me or tell me I've done well or validate me for even half a second. _He cried so hard it hurt his head and stomach, almost looking like he was retching. Richie was woefully unsure of what to say, wished that he had some sort of platitude or comfort he could provide. 

"Hey, Bill."

Bill looked up. By God, he was a mess. "Remember that one time... we were arguing over who was the sexiest slasher villain?"

"Yeah." Bill sniffled. 

"And you said Jason, and Eddie freaked out?"

"He said having sex with a d-d-dead person c-c-c-could t-transfer disease." Bill snorted. "S-Stan totally cheated."

"I mean, Ash Williams does slash people."

"Well he's d-d-d-definitely not the v-villain."

"I'd hit it." Richie smirked. Bill laughed wetly. It was pathetic, and it brought light to Richie's heart. To make people laugh was his sole purpose. "Does Herbert West count as a slasher?" Richie pointed at the TV, still paused on Bruce Abbot's beautiful face.

"No way. He's t-t-trying to un-kill people."

"Yeah." Richie paused. The silent, stale air was suffocating. "I wonder if you'll punch me every twenty-seven years."

"Imp-p-plying I'll live that long."

"If I have to keep being alive, so do you."

"P-p-people like you, Richie."

Richie sighed, grabbing the remote.

"Not really."


End file.
